


Consumed

by distantstarlight



Series: Helpless [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Denial, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Devotion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Hiding Medical Issues, Infection, Instinctive Reactions, Isolation, It Gets Better, John is a Good Friend, Loneliness, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other, Post-Season/Series 04, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sickfic, Solutions to unexpected problems, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements, Unhappiness, attempted drug use, happy ending guarantee, incubus sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-17 07:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock Holmes suffers an unexpected side-effect after he is nearly sexually assaulted during a case. He and John are both living at 221 B Baker Street once more, but things haven't been easy for either of them. The assault changes Sherlock in ways he cannot explain, and he fears that he has become an uncontrollable monster.





	1. The Event

Sherlock Holmes’ return to London after an absence of two years had been marked by upheaval. He was brittle and sharp, shattered and ruined, incapable of properly relaxing into being back. He had hunted for far too long, he still felt like a predator instead of the mere _consulting detective_ he used to be. John Watson had not been best pleased to see the man who had been his late-best friend, especially when Sherlock arrived just in time to deduce and then interrupt the romantic proposal of marriage to a nurse John had been working with. For an instant, he debated about trying to inject some levity into the moment, but at the last second, he decided to just walk up and make John look at him.

For a fraction of a moment, he was being scowled at by two different people. In a flash, her momentarily hard eyes were bright and keen, full of innocent questions. _The tiny clip in her hair was a nice touch, and she was dressed and groomed just enough to show that she’d done her best but didn’t have the budget for more_. She looked exactly as Sherlock imagined John’s future spouse might look. Sherlock’s time away had given him a keen eye that enabled him to recognise the particular blankness that the woman wore beneath her charming and impishly genial facade. He denounced her on the spot, right in front of the entire room of strangers, not even taking the time for greetings.

“She’s a plant, John, a spy. Likely an assassin, probably working for the late James Moriarty on a sleeper contract. I imagine that’s why my brother was so willing to keep such a close watch on you during my absence, because of her. She’s mimicking your perfect match enough that she’s finally lured you into her trap, exactly as the spider wanted her to do. Well done, she’s done her research about you very well. By the way, _not dead_.” Sherlock stood there smirking and preening. John had punched Sherlock right in the face but only after he snatched back the engagement ring from the furious woman. Her expression had told John everything he needed to know about the truth behind Sherlock's exposé. Shouting his ire out at the supposedly-late-consulting detective, John didn’t even protest as the blonde woman attempted to bolt from _The Landmark_. Mycroft’s team managed to discretely incarcerate her not two blocks away. Bleeding but satisfied as he read the text his brother sent, Sherlock watched John leave in a cab by himself. _No matter. John would need a bit of time to wrap his head around things._

John silently returned to 221 B Baker Street the next morning, his inelegantly packed army duffle and battered suitcase looking much as they had the day John had originally moved into Central London. The home John had shared with the woman was now a crime scene and he had nowhere else to go. For weeks, Mrs Hudson was the only happy one in the house. John and Sherlock lived cordially with one another, almost too polite, their feelings hidden deeper than ever as they pulled up sturdy emotionless walls between them. John quietly resumed his position as Sherlock’s personal doctor, silently but gently, tending the mess of wounds on Sherlock’s body. He redid stitches as finely as he could to reduce scarring, prescribed ointments and healing salves to help the wrecked flesh recuperate, and got Sherlock eating regularly once more. Grudgingly, the doctor also resumed his place as Sherlock’s assistant, going on cases with the detective with increasing frequency until, finally, they were back to running through London, laughing, and fighting, and solving crimes together. It was nearly as good as it had once been. Their friendship of old was slowly being reborn.

In many ways, though, Sherlock was more closed off than ever but that seemed to suit John just fine. The doctor was also a closed book compared to his younger self. Emotions and feelings no longer telegraphed themselves across his face, though he still managed to communicate entire levels of information along with his few words. He was clearly very upset by what had happened and all the deceit that had been required to save his life as well as the lives of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade but he was clearly struggling to deal with it as best he could. Sherlock’s terrible self-care habits had only grown worse with time but apart from meals, John did very little to dissuade him. They spun around one another in endless orbits, never truly touching but also, never really pulling away.

Everything changed during a very particular case. Several nightclub owners had grown concerned enough to send a representative to engage Sherlock’s services. It seemed that for many months, patrons had been found unconscious in the loos, or in coat-rooms, storage areas, or even back alleys of various establishments. Each one woke soon, groggy, but lacking memory or evidence of assault. One or two could be excused or explained, but when added together, nearly forty individuals of all ages and genders had been found. None of them felt the need to involve the authorities but it was noticeable enough that the owners felt the need to at least look into it. It wasn’t exactly a problem but it was disturbing.

Sherlock was intrigued. It seemed that there was _crime_ happening, but no victims and indeed, no evidence whatsoever. It was a wonderful mystery. Sherlock and John then received free passes to all concerned businesses so the men dressed to the nines and began to go clubbing. It was fun. They drank sparingly, just enough to not seem out of place while they were out, and danced together, merely to avoid being distracted by potential suitors. It was very easy, and it was the first time that they had felt this comfortable with one another since Sherlock’s return. After the first few clubs, it became easier and more practical to just look like they were a proper couple. Both men kept an experienced eye out for oddities, and due to their diligence, managed to find a heavily inebriated woman being rudely fondled by someone who loomed over her. The artificial fog made things difficult to perceive but not so much that the duo couldn’t see that she was trying to push his hands off. They shouted in tandem and she fell to the floor as the man ran off through a back exit, narrowly escaping John’s wrath. The doctor paused to check the woman over but Sherlock gave chase.

He caught up with the man quickly. They were still in the alley but now they were behind a series of small businesses. It was dark and damp, but Sherlock was comfortable inside the shadow of London and apprehended his suspect easily. Sherlock was prepared to fight to keep the man from escaping and understandably wasn’t at all prepared to fend the individual off. The man forced Sherlock up against the wall, his chest scraping on the rough brick. A large hand covered his mouth as the other yanked Sherlock’s tight trousers down. Sherlock was horrified. The man smelled rancid, like sweat and something salty as well as bitter. Sherlock wanted to vomit when he felt the distinct sensation of a hard cock rubbing against his arse. _He couldn_ _’t break free!_ His shirt was ripped open and the man bit down on his left upper trapezius with enough force to draw blood. Sherlock struggled with all his strength, especially when he felt the head of the man’s cock begin to push hard against his anus. _This couldn_ _’t be happening. This was not supposed to happen!_ The man’s mouth hovered near his, a noxious cloud of halitosis and rot filled Sherlock’s nose, but in that moment, Sherlock felt his resolve to fight to the death weaken and decided that maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. He found himself just giving in, becoming pliant and unresisting. _There was no reason to fight. He should just accept._ Sherlock’s entire body relaxed and all his fear evaporated.

The pressure abruptly disappeared and Sherlock fell to his knees, his bare arse resting on his heels as he struggled to breathe. He heard several meaty strikes behind him and then he felt hands on his shoulders, “Sherlock! Sherlock, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” There was a sharp inhale before, “He _touched_ you, the bastard.” The hands disappeared and Sherlock heard more dull thuds before the hands returned, “I’ve got you, Sherlock. Can you stand? Stand for me, Sherlock, that’s it. Up you get. Let me check you. No, I’m not going to hurt you, I just need to see how far…oh, god, okay, he just…okay.”

Sherlock felt John tug his trousers back up and tuck his shirt back in, “Lestrade and his team are going to be here. The club owner called them for me. The girl is alright, I’m going to take you to the hospital…”

“No.” Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat. He didn’t want to be examined. “Take me home.”

“Sherlock, he almost _raped_ you. He _bit_ you. Your shoulder is _bleeding_.” John sounded so worried. Sherlock managed to look at John’s face and saw so much concern that he wavered before giving in, “Good, oh god, Sherlock.” Sherlock found himself being embraced hard, and unlike with the suspect, he only felt secure and safe as John held him up. _John was his protector. John was his friend. John would watch over him. It was okay to be weak in front of John._ Sagging just a tiny bit, Sherlock leaned into the embrace and struggled to make sense of the emotional chaos he was experiencing.

It took just a few minutes before the police arrived and John held Sherlock for every second. Sherlock kept his eyes closed until John released him, urging the taller man toward the flashing lights at the end of the street. Lestrade was quickly apprised of the presence of the still unconscious suspect and nearly jumped when John shouted his way past everyone, keeping Sherlock moving in front of him until they were safely away. The visit to the hospital A&E was lengthy as well as unpleasant. John insisted on a rape kit and Sherlock was too tired to argue. Hours later, they were finally allowed to leave. Sherlock had supplied a multitude of samples for the lab to go over, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to know the results.

Sherlock slept for two entire days after the assault. He couldn’t seem to rouse himself, and the images his mind produced were unsettling and made him feel a weird kind of hunger. His dreams were filled with shadows, and hands from the darkness kept reaching out to caress him in unwanted ways. Sherlock felt like he needed to get out of bed to get himself something but his muscles refused to listen, and his brain refused to clearly express what his desires truly were. When he woke up, he felt hollow and faded. It was clear that he looked as awful as he felt. John was obviously worried, enough to attempt to play therapist. “Want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what? The bite is a bit infected but the antibiotics will take care of that, I didn’t expect otherwise, not from a human bite. People’s mouths are disgusting.” Sherlock knew John wanted to talk about the _other_ thing the man had done but he most certainly did not. He refused to think further on it. _The bite would heal. Nothing had actually happened, and there was no reason for John to know that Sherlock had also dreamed of being held down and taken, emptied and filled in an endless cycle of pleasure and helplessness._ _With luck, there wouldn_ _’t be scars remaining, and then he would be free to delete the entire experience from his mind palace_.

“I don’t mean the bite, Sherlock,” began John.

Sherlock cut him off, “We were on a case, John. The suspect was a bit ambitious but you soon righted the situation. Thank you for that, by the way. It was almost inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” John was clearly astounded, “Sherlock, he nearly rammed his c…”

 _“John Watson!_ _”_ Sherlock barked out his friend’s name harshly, “ _It was a case._ It’s _over_ now. Nothing permanent was done _so leave it_.”

“Sherlock.” John sounded upset but he didn’t ask anything further. Instead, the doctor tried to take care of Sherlock’s transport, offering food and tea, but Sherlock had no stomach for anything. Even the idea of sipping tea right now made him nauseated, so impatiently, he pushed it all away and stormed out of the flat. John was fussing far too much. _It was entirely unnecessary._ Sherlock didn’t want to be coddled and protected. _He was a grown man who had survived all on his own, he didn_ _’t need someone to treat him like an ill child_. Sherlock walked for a long time. He found himself examining all his fellow pedestrians more closely than was normally his wont. He especially eyed the ones who walked alone, checking them over for signs of partnership, rings or love-bites or several other cues. It made his appetite stir and eventually, he just went back to the flat, eating a small serving of soup with toast on the side, and having half-a-cup of tea.

Days passed. Sherlock managed only one more small meal that week, a cheese and onion toasty made by a very hopeful John, but that was it. After five days without a full meal, even he had to admit that something wasn’t right. “John, I might have contracted something. I have no appetite, as you well know. I don’t seem to thirst but you’d have to check to see if I’m suffering unduly from dehydration. I see no evidence of it but then, I am compromised. I haven’t taken in enough nutrients or liquids this week, I should be far worse off but I’m not. I feel odd, hungry, but not for food, and it’s beginning to concern me.” Sherlock had of course already attempted to self-diagnose but he simply did not have the means to do a comprehensive job of it. Precious data was being lost, and he needed John to agree.

There was no argument, nor hesitation, “I’ll get your coat. Simon is working in the lab tonight and he owes me a fair few favours. I’ll get him to run a spectrum of tests, alright?” Sherlock felt oddly proud of John for having cultivated a useful contact all on his own. Despite his concern, John abstained from touching Sherlock too frequently, where in the past, John might have held Sherlock’s arm to guide him safely to the cab, or even allowed Sherlock to lean on him directly. Now, John watched Sherlock carefully make his way down their stairwell, holding onto the rails and walls until they were on the street.

Blood draws were taken, his cheek was scraped, his throat swabbed, and all manner of other genetic materials were gathered. While the samples were taken, Sherlock found himself being unusually chatty with Simon, making lots of eye contact, and being friendlier than he normally was. John said nothing, but his frown had returned, and his eyes darted back and forth between Simon and Sherlock several times. When they were done, Sherlock saw that John had subconsciously stood physically between the two of them, stalling Simon’s attempts to work up to asking Sherlock out for coffee. “He’s ill, mate, got to get him back to bed.”

John guided Sherlock out of the lab with almost jealous attentiveness, not even trying to explain why he’d departed with such a suggestive goodbye. It made Sherlock’s strange uneasiness increase but he said nothing, not even when they made it back home. He lay on the sofa as soon as his coat and shoes were off, and locked himself into his mind palace to try and figure things out. Something was happening to him, he needed to mentally chart his symptoms. The man who had bitten him might have transmitted some debilitating condition, and he needed to prepare himself for the news.

Sherlock tried to remain calm but it was nearly impossible. He lost interest in everything that normally distracted him, laying on the sofa hour after hour in silence. When he slept, Sherlock had awful dreams of being pinned to the wall yet again, only this time a hot pain would slice into him from behind, skewering him like a red-hot poker. More than once he woke with a scream on the tip of his tongue, stinking of fear and anxiety. John said nothing, but more often than not, Sherlock noticed that John remained close by whenever Sherlock drifted off, and in those moments, he slept peacefully. Still, John had a job, at least for a while.

When John was at home, he did everything he could to coax food into Sherlock but he wasn’t able to manage more than a few slices of fresh fruit and some cheese. Sherlock couldn’t bear the smell of some of his old favourites but strangely, nothing John ate troubled him with their smells. It was only when he was offered portions that they seemed to become offensive.

Mycroft materialised one afternoon, “Doctor Watson.”

“What do you want, Mycroft? You only call me Doctor when you’re about to ask a favour of me.” Sherlock smirked as he watched John pin his brother with a mistrustful glare.

“Sherlock is sick.” Mycroft was opting for the straight-forward approach. Sherlock silently approved.  _John appreciated plain talk as well as honest directness._ “I am here to ask you to consider taking a leave of absence from your clinic in order to remain with Sherlock while he recovers.” Mycroft made no allusions, and Sherlock was grateful. “I know this would cause a financial hardship for you so I have taken it upon myself to arrange for your rents to be covered, and have instituted a grocery delivery schedule for this address.”

“I’m not taking your money, Mycroft.” John nearly growled.

“You’re not, it’s Sherlock’s money. I still have control over his Trust fund and have paid off his rent to Mrs Hudson already.” Mycroft looked at his little brother, “Really, Sherlock, why do you make John pay half when you know full well that you needn’t bother? The good doctor…”

“ _The good doctor_ does not require my charity, brother mine. John is independent and demands that he pay his own way in the world. On the other hand, good. I always forget to write the check but John’s gotten better at forging my signature.”

John’s face turned a bit red but he made no denials. Mycroft shrugged elegantly, “At least he’s keeping your credit rating at an acceptable level, but do not try to distract me from the point. You need companionship. Your health is erratic and until we know what you might have contracted." Sherlock scowled nearly as hard as John did because they should have expected that Mycroft would access any results that concerned Sherlock's wellbeing. "I feel it would be prudent to have a medical professional on hand. I feel that you would object greatly to any of my people being in your company day in and day out, so if Doctor Watson feels like this is a fair trade, he can fill the position.”

“I don’t want some stranger in our flat.” John was scowling again but all of it was directed at Mycroft, “Sherlock doesn’t feel like working right now, and even at the best of times, he doesn’t get on with others. Of course, I’ll stay with him but you didn’t need to…”

“I have learned that you and my brother seldom think anything through, and what would seem a logical and obvious arrangement might never come to pass if I left it up to you. You will discover that we are all in harmony on this subject; Sherlock will spend his energies healing, John will stay to provide company and to bring Sherlock to the hospital should he require it, and I will go away to congratulate myself on a job well done.”

Now Sherlock joined John in scowling at the serene man currently perched on John’s chair. “You can leave now, brother.”

“Of course, Sherlock. Good-day, Doctor Watson. Our arrangement will go into effect immediately. I’ll have Anthea contact your clinic.”

John scowled a bit harder but said nothing.


	2. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's life has suddenly taken a turn for the uncomfortably strange. He's having unwelcome dreams followed by even less welcome actions.

The nights grew worse. Sherlock found himself having sex-dreams and it disgusted him to wake up in a dried puddle of semen. _It was more than undignified to know that he suffered through night-emissions like this, it was revolting._ What made it even worse, what turned his stomach, and made him want to disconnect every memory making apparatus in his brain, was that his dream lovers were people of every description. _Horrifying_. Sherlock loathed touching people and could only make himself do so under pretence. While he was untroubled by an interestingly dead human being, the living ones were mentally torpid and banal, driven by their most primal need for sustenance, shelter, and sex.

 _No thanks._ As far as Sherlock could determine, he’d never once experienced physical attraction beyond what he had felt as a very young man _before_ he’d gained mastery over his rather excitable hormones, and even then, it had only been toward other young men. Sherlock was fairly certain that he was homosexual but had most definitely never given into the urge to experiment. Sherlock had decided at a very young age to never bother with his biological urges in that area. _It wasn_ _’t necessary, not for him. A life of lofty cerebral pursuits was vastly satisfying._ Now his nights were filled with salacious images and depraved acts of every description.

Sherlock tried deleting it all but the memories of the dreams stubbornly remained. His body grew thinner and weaker from lack of sleep as well as food, despite all of John’s increasing attempts to find something palatable for him to consume, and Sherlock was becoming very worried. He found himself watching John closely, examining the soldier with a different eye, his gaze often lingering on John’s backside or his broad shoulders, and on several occasions, his crotch. He could smell John, even more acutely than he’d managed before this. Sherlock knew that if he tasted John’s skin, he would be musky and rich with experiences, a full palate of hard-won wisdom, of pain and resolution. It shocked and disturbed him whenever he caught himself thinking this way, so he chastised himself harshly and took himself out for a walk to cool down.

Life was becoming insupportable. _John would be talking to Mycroft soon about Sherlock_ _’s health. He would be institutionalized and there was nothing he could do to stop it_. He was worried about himself nearly as much as John was. By rights, even though Sherlock was well accustomed to going without sustenance for days but nearly two weeks with no more than what amounted to a single semi-decent meal was not natural. Sherlock knew that something was dreadfully wrong but he just couldn’t seem to focus on figuring it out. He felt so odd, so out of focus, so drained, so unsettled. His thoughts skittered and jumped, refusing to be cajoled back into their previous logical formations, and it was distressing.

While he walked angrily, Sherlock noticed a man in the park. There was nothing remarkable about him, he was an average looking Londoner, obviously out for a healthful walk. The man was heavy, soft in the middle, and wore saggy track pants and trainers. He was jowly and a bit unshaven, walking at a steady pace, just a touch faster than one might require if out for a stroll. _Clearly out for his constitutional before he properly got ready for his day._ Normally Sherlock wouldn’t spend a second more regarding someone so boring and bland but for some reason, he couldn’t tear his eyes off him. Without realising what he was up to, Sherlock sped up his pace and soon was walking briskly behind the stranger. The man was wearing earbuds and was singing softly to himself to keep pace with the song. Sherlock smelled his unwashed body and the dwindling remains of deodorant. There were patches of sweat growing beneath the man’s arms, his hoodie doing its best to soak up the perspiration. Sherlock didn’t understand why he was following the man so closely, keeping up with him even when the man was done with his exercise and was leaving the park.

The streets were packed as they normally were this time of day, and to avoid the crowds, the man ducked into an alley to proceed to wherever he was going. Sherlock followed. As soon as the shadows engulfed him, Sherlock sprang into action. It took only an instant to catch the man off guard, another to push him up against the wall so that they were facing one another, and one more for their lips to meet. _Impossible! Why was he doing this?_ To his own shock, Sherlock kissed the stranger deeply, and his hand plunging beneath the elasticised waistband of his pants to fondle the soft genitalia within. Sherlock tried to yank his hand away, repulsed by the warm dampness and the humid scent that filled his nose, a mix of stale sweat and other biological activity. The man struggled for only a second or two before ceasing, leaning up against the alley wall and allowing Sherlock to rub and stroke him while their kiss deepened. Sherlock found himself inhaling deeply. He pulled his face away and found that a misty trail of something white and translucent poured from the man’s mouth and into his. Sherlock felt his eyes flutter shut as ecstatic energy filled him. His body felt strong and sure in a way it hadn’t since he had been attacked. The flesh beneath his hand was hard and wet, and he was shocked to find that the man was rutting back, groaning and panting, as Sherlock brought him off. The mist streamed faster and faster into Sherlock's mouth until he heard the man choke out a final groan of completion, spending into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock ripped himself away, smearing the handful of semen onto the inside of the man’s trousers. With his newfound energy, Sherlock bolted, running from the alley in a panic. He only went as far as the alley across the street. He paused and watched to see if the fellow would pursue him but he didn’t. Instead, the man exited the alley looking confused and a little embarrassed, tugging his hoodie down as far as it would go to cover the wet spot on his crotch. He didn’t seem upset, and in fact, looked a little lost until he spied a street sign and just went on his way as if he hadn’t just been assaulted mere minutes ago. Sherlock was stunned.

He went back to Baker Street. John was pacing back and forth anxiously, “Where did you go? Are you alright?” The doctor stopped, “Sherlock? You look different. Er…better.”

“Fresh air, John,” Sherlock answered weakly. He went right to the loo and washed his hands with soap and the hottest water he could stand. He could smell the man on himself, smelled the arousal and ejaculate, the stench of sex tinged with fear _. What had he done? Why had he done it?_ Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror. He looked hale, and hearty, or at least more so than he had earlier that day. His colour was good, his complexion lacking the shadows and bruises brought on by hunger and weariness. He almost seemed to glow with returning good health and it disturbed him more than ever.

A polite knock announced John’s entry, “Sherlock? What happened? You look…okay.”

From anyone else, this observation would annoy and irritate Sherlock but he couldn’t help but answer John. “I’m not sure what happened. I went out to the park.” He almost confessed his attack but at the last moment, he stopped himself. _John didn_ _’t need to know. It would never happen again. There was nothing to tell that would help anyone, especially him. It would just be a lot of upset for nothing._ “I suppose I just needed to get out.” He regretted the lie the moment it passed his lips. _He was a coward and a villain._

John didn’t look convinced but Sherlock knew there was nothing about his words or appearance that would give the doctor cause for suspicion. He wasn’t high, John knew full well what Sherlock looked like when he was on drugs, and he hadn’t been gone long enough for him to have gotten into any other sort of trouble. “You sure?”

“Yes, why?” John was often put off by being answered with another question and it worked this time as it had so many other times. After giving Sherlock another sceptical looking over, the doctor departed and left Sherlock free to shower so he could change into his lounge-wear. He brushed his teeth twice, then used several rounds of mouthwash but he could still taste the man on his tongue. Sherlock shuddered. _Why had he forced himself on the poor fellow_? Turning the taps on as hot as he could bear, Sherlock scrubbed himself hard from head to toe, _accidentally_ using John’s semi-luxurious Tesco brand body bar. The bathroom filled with the smell of sandalwood and it relaxed him, filling him with much-needed calm.

Sherlock was deeply concerned. He felt guilty and could in no way excuse what had happened. _No one had coerced him or forced him._ _He had sexually accosted a stranger! On top of that, he had somehow ingested the mist or whatever it was, and there was no explanation available to validate what had occurred._ Sherlock had felt himself become almost instantly revitalised, even John had noticed. _It wasn_ _’t logical, it made no sense. What had he taken from his victim?_ Sherlock retched at the memory of what he had just been doing, bending over, and letting the scalding water beat down his back as he gagged on bile. _He was a monster! He was a low and common garden variety rapist and brutish animal!_ Sherlock had never hated himself so acutely. He thought of the consequences of turning himself in but something prevented him from just telling John to bring him to the Yard to be incarcerated. “Sherlock, you alright? Are you ill?”

“No,” he lied again instantly. John had obviously heard him. Sherlock hastened to provide a weakly plausible excuse, “Well, I accidentally swallowed some shampoo, it made me gag.” Sherlock turned off the taps and dried off just enough to keep dripping all over the bathroom while he brushed and rinsed his mouth yet again. There was a polite tap at the door before John’s arm appeared, wordlessly holding out Sherlock’s robe. Taking it silently, Sherlock stood there as John merely closed the door tight and left.

With some trepidation, Sherlock went to the sitting room. John was sitting in his chair reading the paper, but Sherlock noted that a warm blanket had appeared on the sofa and that the Union Jack pillow had been punched up so that it was temporarily fluffy and inviting. Taking the offering for what it was, Sherlock lay on the sofa and covered himself. “You do look better but you still need rest.”

John wasn’t looking at Sherlock but he didn’t need to. John was doing his best to do his part in mending their greatly strained friendship. Right now, Sherlock didn’t have it in him to make things more difficult. He _was_ feeling good, but now he was also a bit hungry and even a tiny bit thirsty, “Is there bread left?”

John perked up, folding his paper down. With a small and faintly hopeful smile, he asked, “Toast again? Perhaps a sandwich?”

There was definitely more hope embedded in the word _sandwich_ , and for the first time in weeks, Sherlock had a proper appetite. “Sandwich?”

“Big or small.”

“Big.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock hesitated then added, “Thank you, John.”

John gave Sherlock a rare smile, one that went all the way to his eyes and brought out some of the old warmth that Sherlock had been missing so much. It made him feel guiltier than ever. _He had no right to be enjoying hot tea and sandwiches with his best friend. He deserved jail and public humiliation for his actions. John didn't see it, not yet_. He just said, “You’re welcome, Sherlock. You just tuck up, I’ll be back in a tick.”

John nearly bustled to the kitchen. Sherlock lay there, completely conflicted as he battled to let John know what he'd just done and simultaneous basking in relief that the hunger was gone. Wordless, he just listened to his friend puttering back and forth, assembling their meal and brewing their tea. A few minutes later, John came back bearing one of Mrs Hudson’s many platters. Two large mugs of tea were on it, as well as two fat sandwiches made of several layers of what looked like everything in the fridge. After sitting and receiving his plated meal, Sherlock ate in large bites while John found a programme on the telly to ignore while they ate.

Sherlock devoured every crumb and even agreed to a second cup of tea. John was very pleased and Sherlock felt himself relax. _Maybe this would be okay. Maybe he could get past this, whatever had happened, was. He would find the man and apologise, he_ _’d even offer to turn himself in. It would disappoint John to learn what he_ _’d done but he couldn_ _’t in good conscience let himself off the hook_. Mind made up, Sherlock let himself drift off, falling asleep halfway through the show. He slept peacefully, not noticing when the blanket was tucked neatly around his body, nor how his abandoned dishes were quietly carted away. Sherlock didn’t react when a gentle hand pressed against his cheek, nor did he flinch when a deep regretful sigh was released, “Oh Sherlock, what is the matter with you? I’m so worried.” John’s unhappy words were distantly registered but Sherlock was too far under now to respond. He slept.

The very next morning, Sherlock took toast and tea with John before departing for another walk. John didn’t protest but he also didn’t offer to accompany Sherlock. That was a bit disappointing but definitely for the best. Sherlock set off and began to send out feelers for his victim. He ambled around, weaving his way down streets and through alleys. One at a time he encountered members of his homeless network. _It would take a few days but they would pay off, they always did_. Sherlock would find the man and set things right.

Four days later, there was finally word. Sherlock was irritable and tetchy. His appetite had waned yet again, but the hunger remained. John tried to tempt him with biscuits and other treats but Sherlock couldn’t manage a crumb. It was raining hard when he got a text, and despite John’s cautions, Sherlock left. Ignoring the torrential downpour, he just turned up the collar of his coat and walked briskly. It took the better part of an hour to find her, but eventually, Sherlock made his way to the dry end of the alleyway that Ana called home. “Mr Holmes.” Ana was tall and dark. Her clothes were soiled but cared for, and her hard eyes watched every move that Sherlock made with suspicion, “Address.” She held out a scrap of paper. Sherlock knew she could have just texted the data. She needed something, “How much?”

“Enough for two.” Sherlock counted out several bills, “I’m going to quit. I am, Mr Holmes.”

“I know you are Ana, I believe you. Thank you for your help.” Sherlock sniffed the air delicately. _Ana smelled familiar, warm and delectable._ Sherlock caught her gaze with his and stepped closer. She froze, a tinge of fear making her eyes widen and her breath quicken, “It’s alright. I have no wish to hurt you.” _No, he did not. Hurting Ana was the last thing on his mind._ Sherlock stepped closer, “Thank you for helping me, Ana.”

“Mr Holmes?” Her voice rose a few notes, anxiety filling every syllable. Ana tried to bolt but Sherlock was too fast. Exactly as with the man, Sherlock kissed Ana hard, plunging his hand into her jeans, cupping her womanhood. _No! No! Why?_ Sliding and curling his fingers, he sank into her warmth easily. Ana just stood there, her stance wide, her gaze vacant except for the arousal. _His body was reacting on its own and most definitely without his permission. Sherlock had never wanted to be with a woman, he barely had wanted to be with a man. He didn’t want to be with Ana in the slightest but he couldn’t stop himself any more than she seemed to be able to resist. His flesh wasn’t aroused no matter how lithely his fingers danced._ As with the man, Sherlock seemed to be drawing a white mist from Ana’s mouth. She was moaning, her hips rocking and rutting against his hand. The more she writhed, the heavier the mist became and the more satisfied Sherlock felt. He let his new instincts overtake him, pushing two fingers deep inside her while his thumb rolled and rubbed exactly how she needed it. Ana was soaking wet, her inner walls clutching him eagerly as she rode his hand. Their mouths were close together so Sherlock could feel as well as hear her wail of bliss as she orgasmed loudly.

The second the mist stopped flowing, Sherlock jerked back. Ana fell back onto her makeshift pallet with a weak but satisfied moan. Sherlock was frozen to the spot, his hand glistening with her juices, his eyes wide as he looked down at her with dismay and regret. _What had he done? Ana disliked people even more than he did. She was a true loaner, not keeping any close friends on the street. Even he only interacted with her on a financial basis, strictly information only_. She sighed contentedly one more time before looking up, “Oh, Mr Holmes. You’re still here. Did you need something else, only, I don’t think I’m doing a walkabout again today?”

 _There was no fear in her eyes, nothing at all to indicate she knew she_ _’d just been forced to come while he consumed whatever it was that made up the mist._ Sherlock was entirely flummoxed. _Ana very obviously did not remember what he_ _’d done to her._ He felt sick with himself and suddenly understood that the man he’d accosted also had no memory of his assault. _Something about the attack erased the memory of it from the victim_ _’s mind._ “I’ll pay you in advance just in case I need something in a hurry next time around.” Sherlock handed her fifty pounds in small bills. _Guilt money._ Nodding stiffly in farewell, Sherlock strode away. He found the nearest public lavatory and washed his hands for several minutes. He rinsed his mouth out too, he could taste the chips she’d had for lunch, and he wanted to throw up. Retching a little all over again, Sherlock rinsed his mouth out one last time and left.

When he got home, Sherlock examined himself in the bathroom mirror. _He looked fantastic. His skin was clear and glowing slightly. His hair was glossy and full of bounce. His eyes were bright and clear_. In short, Sherlock was the picture of health. He wanted to die. _Somehow, he was taking something from these people and it was positively affecting his transport_. He needed to figure this out. _It had all begun with the night he_ _’d been bitten. He needed to speak to the man who had initially assaulted him and get some answers._ It took a few texts back and forth but eventually, Sherlock arranged for a brief interview with the man.

He arrived too late. The man’s name had been Edward Larch. He’d been initially arrested but had fallen ill shortly after. He’d been transferred to a secure hospital, cuffed to his bed to be watched and tended to. Nothing helped. Edward died while during Sherlock’s cab ride there. He needed to sneak into the morgue between shifts to even get a look at him. It wasn’t pleasant. Edward was very large, at least two stone heavier than Sherlock was, but for all his mass he looked emaciated and empty. He looked as if he had died from lack of food, and the moment Sherlock had the thought, he knew it was true. Edward had been incarcerated since the night he’d bitten Sherlock. The chances of him having someone to feed on was very low. The doctors had attempted intravenous tubal feedings, but they hadn’t been enough.

Sherlock crept away, his head spinning with unanswered questions. _Edward had starved to death for lack of the mist he was taking from his victims, the mist that Sherlock was now feeding upon. Would Sherlock also die if he didn’t consume it?_ He hoped so. Sherlock didn’t want to live like this, finding random victims and forcing sex upon them in order to sustain himself. _He was a grotesque, a true freak of nature, one of the body instead of just the mind_.

Sherlock made up his mind. He would keep himself from feeding until his death. John would try his best to save Sherlock, and it would hurt his dear friend greatly, but there was nothing for it. Sherlock couldn’t live this life. It had been forced upon him, it was against his choosing, against his inclinations, and just wrong. It was his only choice.


	3. Anger

Sherlock was furious _. Nothing he tried was working! He was so hungry right now but mundane food wasn_ _’t even remotely interesting_. He had already formulated a variety of concoctions that should have stimulated his normal appetite and others that should have nullified his libido. _He may as well have ingested water; the only effect was the increased need to pee._ Nothing seemed to work on him anymore, not even paracetamol, a fact he’d verified by ending up with a stress headache. Even pinching some of John’s strongest tablets from his private stash had provided no relief. _Maddening_. Sherlock spent night after night examining samples he drew from his own body, comparing them to the samples Simon had taken, and the samples from his rape kit. There was nothing unusual about his blood, his hair, his skin, his saliva, his urine, or even his faeces. For all intents and purposes, he was a perfectly healthy human being. _That couldn_ _’t be right._

Sherlock was determined to find out what had happened to him before he ended everything. _There had to be a clue of some kind!_ He set up a comprehensive database about himself, purchasing a new high-end scale for the bathroom, and weighing himself several times a day to track his body-mass. He carefully noted the liquids he managed to imbibe, the bits of food he managed to consume, how many hours he slept, and tracked every kind of biological function he could map. Slowly, Sherlock built his sphere of knowledge on everything about himself that he could manage with the tools inside 221 B Baker Street. To it, Sherlock added what few details he could about the people he had accosted, an unpleasant task but necessary if he wanted to find a way to stop himself from doing anything like it again.

It was all utterly pointless. One afternoon, John went to work. Sherlock went for a walk, trying to clear his head to sort out his problem. He walked for an hour or more before he became conscious of the deliberate path he was taking. _Someone smelled enticing. He was very clearly prowling after a specific someone, a person who smelled appetising and vulnerable. It was gorgeous._ Sherlock identified the person a second later. It was a nervous-looking man in a knitted vest. _Early twenties, thin and bookish._ He was threading his way through the crowd apologetically, stepping aside for passers-by. Sherlock’s mouth watered at the sight of him and without hesitation, he quickened his pace. Sure enough, the man unwisely took a side path away from the main street, too insecure to even face strangers on the street where he had just as much right as they did to walk down it.

Three metres in, Sherlock pounced. He pushed the man up against the alley wall, their bodies hidden between stacks of empty boxes and crates awaiting disposal. The man struggled, his eyes wild with fear until Sherlock’s mouth pressed to his. His body instantly relaxed and he didn’t attempt to resist as Sherlock opened his trousers, tugging them down far enough to expose his semi-firm penis. Sherlock’s body stirred at the sight, but he ignored his physical needs, his actions instinctive and outside of his control. Sherlock felt the man’s cock grow harder. It was small, barely a handful, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in his size, he was only interested in what was finally coming from between the man’s lips. _Mist_. Sherlock couldn’t help analysing everything as it happened. _He tasted fear but mostly arousal, a bit of ham and rye, so clearly, the man had just eaten a small meal. Likely worked in an office somewhere, a computer programmer perhaps, something clerical._

Sherlock’s hand moved expertly, stroking the short shaft with assurance. He fondled the man’s bollocks, swirling his fingers along the man’s perineum before resuming his strokes. Several minutes of effort were worth it. The result was a devastating orgasm and thicker, more opaque puffs of mist which Sherlock greedily consumed. This time he didn’t wait before striding off, pausing just long enough to fix his meal’s clothing before using a tissue to clean off his hand, discarding the sodden waste in one of the empty containers he passed by. Sherlock’s transport felt energised, alive, and filled with power. His mind, however, was filled with horror and resentment, grief that his intellect was no help against the needs of his flesh. _It was beyond frustrating to have no direction to search in, to have not a single useful clue to follow towards an answer of some kind. He was living off people like a parasite, a rapist parasite!_ _There had to be a cure_.

Sherlock stumbled back to Baker Street. He couldn’t recall where he’d been going in the first place, or what time of day it was, or where John might be. He didn’t care. Sherlock made his way home as quickly as he could, an easy enough feat now that his transport felt so gloriously fit and ready, but his mind was a mess. Sherlock had never wished harder to be a head in a jar exactly like he’d seen in that ridiculous animated show that John watched on his laptop. It had seemed like a delightful solution to having a body. Sherlock would have loved to be merely a brain floating around in the jar, unfettered by his flesh. _John would carry him around to crime scenes, even now when things were rough between them, Sherlock was positive that John would carry his brain, if he asked, he was an excellent assistant._

Sherlock wondered how his thoughts had so seriously derailed. _Why was he thinking such implausible thoughts when he had a serious problem to solve? There was something incredibly wrong with him. He was molesting people and sucking an unknown something out of them!_ Sherlock thought for a moment. _His first victim had released an almost invisible mist. His second, Ana, had also produced mist, though it had been more visible. The man just now had produced thick and tangible mist_. Sherlock wondered if he was getting better at doing whatever he was doing or if he was growing stronger against his will. He searched his mind palace for any kind of relevant answers but found nothing but more questions.

It happened twice more that week, and it was infuriating. The next was a very fit bloke who just happened to be passing by the alley near the local baker. The man was wound up already, turned on by the bodies of his workout partners at the gym, a desire that had triggered Sherlock’s interest but had left the man right on the edge. It was brief and too quick, the bloke shot off almost immediately and Sherlock felt dissatisfied. The very next day Sherlock found himself salivating after a heavyset lady who was distractedly checking her mobile just before he pulled her into the bushes at the park. Her mouth was minty and a tiny bit coffee flavoured. Sherlock used his long fingers to good effect and her orgasm was long and powerful, and the mist she provided was almost solid enough to chew. It made Sherlock feel incredible. John was at his clinic both times finishing up his leave of absence paperwork, and Sherlock was grateful that his friend wasn’t around to witness his debauched villainy.

He looked glorious, glowing with health, vitality, even beauty. Sherlock hated himself deeply now and wondered if there was some way to restrain himself. He promised himself every morning that he would find a way to bind himself, but he didn’t do it any more than he confessed his sins to his best friend. _John would wonder if he locked himself in his room. Perhaps in one of his London boltholes? Nowhere was entirely private though, boltholes were often shared, it was how he kept in touch with his homeless network._ After his assault on Ana, Sherlock couldn’t stomach the thought of victimising them further. They suffered daily, not that it made a difference to him regarding his new habits. _No one deserved to be sexually molested and no matter how you looked at it, that_ _’s what he was doing._ He thought of his victims and had a sudden revelation. _His hunger was sated longer when his victims were better satisfied!_ He’d lasted days after the first man, but only one after the fit bloke. It made a weird kind of sense, so Sherlock made note of the times between ingestion, angrily determined to beat whatever this affliction was. Five days later he found himself walking the streets again, this time at night. He had barely noticed leaving the flat, his transport merely sorting itself out with his coat and shoes and walking out the door into the dusk.

He was a bartender coming home from the closing shift at the pub. He had that particular delicious smell that said he was what Sherlock was looking for. He didn’t even lay in wait, he’d gone right into the pub and eye-fucked the man without shame nor awkwardness, waiting outside the doors until he came out. Sherlock rubbed their bodies together and kissed the man deeply, teasing his hardening cock with his fingertips before he finally opened the bartender’s pants and pulled his red and weeping cock out. Sherlock was careful now, prolonging the rise to ecstasy with finesse. The man moaned and rutted, his hips twisting a bit as Sherlock used all his newfound skill. As he had suspected, the mist from the man’s mouth was thick and filling, the perfect meal. Sherlock took all of it, nearly groaning in disappointment when the man finally ejaculated onto the pavements, ending the feeding.

Sherlock almost left him there with his cock out, his mind whirling with data as he plotted his next meal. He turned back and straighten up the man’s appearance before the ecstasy wore off. His mind raced. _This wasn_ _’t supportable as a lifestyle, but he had yet to figure a way out of it. If he pleased his victims more, theoretically, he wouldn_ _’t need to victimise someone as often. The odds were against him, it was just a dwindling matter of time before he was caught. Mycroft watched him closely. With the amount of surveillance at his brother_ _’s command, it wouldn_ _’t be long before he was recorded mid-assault_.

He realised he had put off his original decision to off himself rather than live this way yet again. Even now, Sherlock was going to see how long he could last without another victim but he was beginning to doubt his resolve. _If he could endure five days without accosting someone, then he_ _’d know he was on the path to as a solution, perhaps._ _Maybe he would die, perhaps he_ _’d grow more able to resist his urges._ Sherlock didn’t know. He was torn. He needed to feed but he didn’t want to live like this. His mind was being split between how natural it felt to exist like this and his life-long desire to never have carnal relations with a single soul, not ever.

He gorged on normal food that night. John was very happy to see how Sherlock’s appetite had grown. They had Chinese and Sherlock emptied every single container he could. When his stomach could deal with more, he drank huge quantities of water as well as fruit juice, trying to store up a normal source of energy while he was able to ingest it. For two entire days, Sherlock managed to eat normal meals and drank the proper amount of tea required to keep an English temperament well regulated. On the third day, his secret hunger for more began to rise but this time, Sherlock gave himself no opportunity to stray.

He set up a large and complex experiment. It would take days to complete and would require constant monitoring. He’d barely have time to sleep and none to waste on wandering around London searching for someone to rub off. Sherlock was confident that his powers of concentration were more than adequate to keep himself from leaving 221 B Baker Street and harming an unsuspecting person. The first day was a breeze. It annoyed John to be ignored so thoroughly, but it was for the good of everyone. _His hurt feelings would have to keep_. The second day wasn’t as easy. Sherlock caught himself almost leaving the kitchen to follow John whenever the soldier popped in for more tea, or to reheat leftovers. John knew better than to try to cook while Sherlock was experimenting, they had a long-standing tradition whereby Sherlock left his bank card by the takeaway menus and John didn’t nag at him for keeping their table unfit for its intended purpose.

The third day was a blur. It had now been six days since he’d found someone, and Sherlock was reeling with hunger. He tried to eat fruit and had only managed to induce vomiting in himself. He turned off his mobile to keep Lestrade or his brother from trying to tempt him into the public with interesting cases. Sherlock found himself sniffing the air, trying to find the location of whatever it was that was beginning to smell so good. He followed it around the flat, not noticing how he was sampling the air like he was a hound, wrinkling his nose and taking in delicate snuffles, analysing their attributes until he found himself outside John’s room where the doctor was taking a nap.

_No._

_Not John._

The horror of what he’d been about snapped him out of his trance. Sherlock bolted from the room, almost tumbling down the stairs. He stuffed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his Belstaff, and made for the front door, “Hoo hoo,” trilled Mrs Hudson from her flat, “Before you run off, I need you to fetch down my big roaster, be a pet, will you Sherlock?”

_Mrs Hudson._

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and his vision went blurry. His hunger was so acute that it hurt. Sherlock almost doubled over as Mrs Hudson invited him into her kitchen, offering to pay him in treats and tea. Sherlock turned away from the street and took three halting steps towards her before he managed to stop himself. _Not Mrs Hudson. Not John. Not Mrs Hudson_. With a small shout of enraged frustration at his failures, Sherlock ran from 221 B Baker street in a panic.

Hunger made things fuzzy. The world spun and tilted madly for a few moments before the cacophony of sights and smells receded. Sherlock’s new senses pricked as his personality receded. His steps grew steady and sure, his pace quickening. _There were so many lovely smells about and he was so very hungry_. Sherlock didn’t hear the man behind him calling his name, nor noticed when the same man endeavoured to catch up to him. He was too busy noticing the dapper gent who was idly making his way down the street. He smelled tasty and Sherlock’s appetite soared to greater heights. He continued to ignore all extraneous input, not noticing his name being shouted repeatedly as the other man grew closer.

His victim did as all his previous victims had done. He turned off the main street and cut through an alley to get wherever he was going faster. _Mistake_. With another surge of speed, Sherlock darted after him and in a trice, had the man pinned against the wall. His victim managed on brief shout, but Sherlock kissed him hard, causing him to become limp and pliant. Sherlock felt his own cock hardening, and for the first time, he was interested in doing more than using his hand and mouth to get what he needed. _There was no reason not to enjoy an orgasm of his own_. Instinctively, he knew it would make the feeding sublime.

He got his cock out and bent the unresisting and compliant man over a small stack of boxes. Conveniently, the mist kept pouring out of the man’s mouth and into Sherlock’s. Sherlock yanked down bespoke trousers and finely fit pants to expose the man’s fluttering anus to view. _Lovely_. Sherlock undid his flies just enough to release his hardening cock. _He_ _’_ _d never fucked anyone before but why not do so now? It would feel so good_. Pressing the head against the dry orifice, Sherlock began to push. _The mist tasted so good, it was making him feel so good._ Sherlock closed his eyes and braced himself to thrust in hard.

“Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes!” A shocked shout behind him was followed by a rough hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from his victim. Another hand landed a rather powerful punch on his jaw and Sherlock went flying. He landed on his arse hard enough for himself to smell blood in his nose from the impact of the punch. His head was clearing of his unnatural lust quickly and with renewed horror, Sherlock looked up to see the disgust, confusion, hurt, disappointment, fury, on John Watson’s face. “What the fuck do you think you were doing, Sherlock?”

John looked at him for only a second before turning his attention to the man who had stood up on his own and had fixed his clothing himself. His face was blank and he seemed to notice where he was for the first time after his appearance was sorted, “Eh, what’s this then? Didn’t mean to interrupt, er, I’ll just be…going away.” The man looked embarrassed and Sherlock realised his now flaccid cock was still hanging out and that the man had seen it. _The stranger_ _’_ _s memory had already faded. It was obvious that he had no idea why he was standing there looking at a bloke who was clearly exposing himself to the small man with the bleeding fist_. His pace was very brisk as he departed the alley, leaving a stunned John and a deeply mortified Sherlock behind. “John. I need you to understand. I need to explain.”

John stared down at Sherlock, waiting for the words to come but all language failed Sherlock, so great was his self-hate and humiliation.  All of John’s other emotions were put in the shade by the contempt that now took dominance, “This is the last thing I might have expected from you, Sherlock. I…I…” Whatever John was going to say was left hanging in the air, much like Sherlock’s shrivelled penis. John turned on his heel and stormed away, his hand shooting in the air to flip Sherlock off as John took himself away, “We’re done.”

Sherlock sat there in silence for a long time. It wasn’t until he became aware of how cold he was becoming that he finally managed to stand, tucking himself shamefully away. Sherlock saw that his hands were shaking, and then, that something wet was on the back of them. _Tears. He was crying_. Sherlock touched his face to feel the dampness. His chest felt tight as if breathing were something he no longer needed to do. A sob caught in his throat. _He was a monster. He was a rapist. He was a freak. John was leaving him_.

Sherlock barely stifled a wail of absolute agony _. Failed! He had failed! He was a failure. John was leaving him!_ Falling to his knees, Sherlock Holmes cried into his hands, his shoulders shaking helplessly as sobs made him twist and rock. _John was leaving him. He had lost John. Something had made Sherlock this way and because of it, he had lost John forever._ Sherlock wanted to die. The pain was too much. The strain of everything was too much. _John was leaving him!_


	4. Bargaining

Sherlock walked the streets for hours after John’s departure. He didn’t want to go back to Baker Street but in the end, he had little choice. _It would be so easy to turn himself in. All he needed to do was call Lestrade or even Donovan. Why not Anderson? That would be fit punishment, to allow an incompetent like Philip Anderson the glory of arresting Sherlock Holmes for sexual assault_. He couldn’t anyway. Sherlock now knew that he’d rushed out in such a hurry that he’d left behind his mobile and his wallet. He couldn’t rent a hotel room or even get a cab back. John had told him to arrange an Oyster card, but Sherlock had arrogantly dismissed the idea as redundant as well as pointless. Now he was filled with even more regrets about his pompous attitudes. _He didn_ _’t deserve human comforts like mass transportation. Monsters didn_ _’t deserve rides in warm cabs or nice dry train cars_.

He walked home, making no attempt to direct himself toward any sort of authority. He was mortified by his actions. Knowing John knew and hated him for it made his crimes so much worse than they already were. Sherlock was no longer in command of himself and it was devastating. His body simply went forward until he was back at 221 B Baker Street. Sherlock let himself in quietly. It was very dark out and from what he could guess, it was about two in the morning. Mrs Hudson would have been asleep for hours, and even John normally went to bed no later than eleven in the evening, if he was still in residence.

He wasn’t.

Sherlock knew John was gone the moment he stepped into their flat. It felt empty. His bottom lip trembled as he made his way past the landing and up the stairs to John’s room. The door was open. There was no need for it to be closed because everything was gone. _John had packed up and had left 221 B Baker Street entirely_. Another sob caught in Sherlock’s throat and it made him want to be ill.

Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he went back downstairs and into the living room. He hung his coat up and tried not to flinch as he noted the empty pegs that had once held John’s inexpensive but sturdy coats. Sherlock went to the kitchen and miserably noted that John’s mugs were gone. The doctor had even taken the small blue cereal bowl he’d bought at a second-hand shop. _John_ _’s breakfast bowl_. Sherlock boiled water in a pot because John had also taken the kettle, the kettle that the doctor had purchased with money from his own pocket, specifically for tea making, because their original kettle had been used one too many times for experiments and had not survived. There were only two teabags left, and only because they had fallen out of the box and were laying open on top of the shelf’s surface. Using the second to last one, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and tried not to cry again.

He had failed to stop himself and his great shame was witnessed by the one person he cared most for in the world. Sherlock hated himself even more. _He had handled this entire situation in the most bumbling and incompetent way possible. He hadn’t checked his symptoms. He hadn’t followed up on Edward Larch’s background or history. It was like he was doing everything he could to avoid finding a solution to his problems and now look. Everything that happened was so distasteful. Not only had his attempts to understand and control his new problem been laughable, they’d been injurious. Some poor person had been compelled into sexual acts to sustain him. Even if they didn_ _’t know it, they had been abused and he deserved to be punished for it. He had lost his friendship with John. It was horrible to contemplate because John was his anchor, his centre, his tether to all that was decent and good in the world._ Sherlock was not prepared to face a world without his blogger.

_John, please, I need to tell you things. Come home. SH_

_I don_ _’t have a home. JW_

Sherlock’s heart spasmed with pain. 221 B Baker Street was only home because John had lived there with him. With John gone, Sherlock wouldn’t have a home either. John needed to understand. He tried again.

_You do. Come home. Let me tell you everything. SH_

_I don't want to hear whatever lies you have practised. I don't know you. JW_

_John!_ John rightfully thought terrible things about Sherlock, but he didn’t know the entire truth. If anyone in the world deserved to know what had happened to Sherlock, it was John.

_Remember when I was bitten? SH_

_I don_ _’t fucking care. JW_

_I was infected with something. I can_ _’t identify it. I can_ _’t seem to make myself find out. SH_

_I don_ _’t fucking care! No one can make you do anything, it_ _’s impossible. I don_ _’t want anything to do with someone who does what you do. JW_

_The things I do, I have no control over my body. John, something drives my transport. I cannot stop it. SH_

_I don_ _’t want lies from a stranger. I don_ _’t know you. I hope that man calls the police officers. I will happily testify against you. JW_

_I wish he could! He won_ _’t remember what you saw. John, help me. Please, just help me. The man who almost raped me, he bit my shoulder and I CANNOT STOP MYSELF. SH_

_Please John, just, please come home. SH_

There was no answer. Sherlock threw his phone onto the sofa in despair at the silence. Fisting his hair, he fell to his knees and gasped for air. _He couldn_ _’t breathe without John!_ The pain was intolerable. His hunger was beginning to rise. Panic and self-loathing competed to see who would have dominion of Sherlock’s frantic mind. Sherlock was desperate to stop himself so when he had the thought, it seemed the perfect cure to all his ails.

Sherlock stopped crying. He stood on his feet, dusted off his clothing and straightened himself up. _He_ _’d lost John and if he wasn_ _’t careful, he knew he would be out the door and hunting for his next victim. There was literally a solution to his current problem._ Sherlock closed his eyes for a second as he prepared himself but there really wasn’t a choice, and there certainly was no longer a reason to say no.

Sherlock went to John’s room. It took effort, but he pulled the antique desk that John often used as a laundry station away from the wall. There was a decorative vent there, once used when coal heated the building but long since sealed over as the times and building codes changed. Sherlock used a coin to unscrew the bolts and once the grating was free, Sherlock reached a steady hand inside and extracted a long wooden box.

The scent of cedar filled his nose. The entire piece was a work of art, elegantly carved from rare woods, inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. He lifted the lid and looked at the treasure within. It was his old syringe, kept as a reminder of darker days, and a bastion of temptation that he had religiously resisted for years. There wasn’t any point any longer. He lifted the long satin lined tray that held his kit and looked at the small baggies nestled beneath. _More than enough_.

Sherlock prepared his seven percent solution with the ease of long practice, the steps ingrained in his fingers from years of repetition. Sherlock took his dose with him, sitting out on John’s bare mattress. It still smelled faintly of the soldier and it was comforting. Tying off his arm expertly, Sherlock pressed the needle in perfectly, letting the drug flood into his system. Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back. He waited for the rush, the euphoria, the blankness.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock tasted the powder in the bag. It was legitimate. He examined his arm. The red pin-prick was there but before his eyes, it faded away, leaving no trace of its existence. He looked at the syringe. A trace of the drug still dripped from the tip. _He_ _’d injected the drug into himself, that was a certainty. He should be high right now._ Sherlock didn’t feel any different. He prepared a second dose, understanding fully what he was risking but recklessly injected himself a second time. Sherlock recorded the entire process on his mobile and sent it to John, including the proof of his injection site simply healing away.

_I tried. It didn_ _’t work. I_ _’m entirely sober. Something is unnaturally wrong with me John. SH_

_I will go out soon. SH_

_I will find another person SOON. I don_ _’t know how I choose them. SH_

_Stop me. I hate touching people, John. You know this. SH_

_I will kiss someone. I don_ _’t want to. My tongue will be in their mouth. I will taste them. I will touch them. I will bring them to orgasm. Stop me! SH_

_I will feed off their life-force, their innocence, their something. I don_ _’t know what. It makes me healthy. You_ _’ve seen the results. It_ _’s horrible. SH_

_They don_ _’t remember. They don_ _’t seem to be affected. I remember every second and it is a torment. SH_

_John, I don_ _’t want to be intimate with someone. I cannot stop myself. I am begging you, please, please John, stop me. Please, stop me. SH_

_Help. SH_

_John. SH_

_Please. SH_

_Please. SH_

_Help me. SH_

_Please, please, please, John. Help me. SH_

_John. SH_

_I_ _’m sorry. SH_

Sherlock found himself pulling on his coat, and stepping into his shoes. He drifted down the stairs and out the door. His mind became quiet and focused, his screaming internal distress now mere background noise in his mind as something more primaeval took over. Sherlock waved down a cab and told the driver to bring him to Soho. The driver seemed charmed and winked flirtatiously at Sherlock before doing as they were bid. When he eventually disembarked, Sherlock nearly forgot to pay his fare, so focused was he on scanning the crowds. He inhaled deeply and exhaled in satisfaction. _There was prey here, many to choose from_. The scent of desire was in the air, the twang of loneliness, the cut of desperation. _Delectable_. Sherlock wandered, simply letting his feet carry him wherever he needed to go. His pocket buzzed several times, but Sherlock paid it no mind. He was occupied.

Many people cast an appreciative eye over Sherlock as he strolled, and he smiled at all of them. He felt sensual and desirable, it was obvious that those that looked upon him wanted him. Sherlock kept moving. He was looking for something very particular, and soon, he found it. She was perfection. She was wan, frightened, unhappy, and resentful at what others had that she did not. Sherlock let her see him before he herded her into the darkness.

The woman seemed captivated by his eyes and Sherlock knew he was getting better, stronger. He could smell the lust growing inside her and knew that he had found what he needed. She made no sound, giving herself up willingly. Sherlock pushed her against the wall, pulling up her skirts to fit himself neatly between her rounded thighs. Rolling his hips as he kissed her mouth, Sherlock rubbed his hardening erection against her quickly sodden womanhood. The mist presented thick and rich, and Sherlock almost purred with satisfaction. _He was eating the desires she never acted on. He was being filled with the energy of sexual tension that was never reciprocated!_ He kept his hands on her arse, holding her up as he undulated. Her whimpers were ecstatic. _She loved being overpowered and taken. It was a preference she rarely got to indulge in. Interesting._ Sherlock could taste her contentment at being ravished. _Perfect_.

Thrusting in earnest, Sherlock contemplated undoing his trousers so that he could penetrate her, but he didn’t have time to try. _He had no condoms, at any rate, and there was no need to complicate the impossible by adding a potential child into the mix._ She gasped sharply before wrapping her legs tight around his waist, rubbing urgently against his thick cock as she came wetly. Sherlock shuddered as his appetite was satisfied and the dreadful hunger left him, cold reality making him aware that her smell was all over his clothing and the taste of her was in his mouth. His trousers were a mess, his tumescence shrivelling away as the feelings of shame and disgust filled him. She’d left a smear of fluids as evidence of his assault. Sherlock set her on her feet carefully and made sure he’d left no mark. She looked wonderfully relaxed and sated, smiling aimlessly as she tugged down her skirt and patted her hair. Sherlock looked at her once more before walking back in the direction he’d come in. _There was no need for him to be out any longer. He_ _’d failed to resist yet again, and he had fed_.

The flat was still empty when he got back, remorse and self-loathing filling his thoughts with demands of retribution _. Why didn_ _’t he just turn himself in? Why didn_ _’t he just do something that would end his predations?_ Instead, silently, Sherlock undressed in the loo, stuffing all his clothing in the hamper before stepping into the shower. He turned on just the hot water and gasped as the scorching heat washed over him. He took the straight-razor that he normally shaved with and examined his wrists. _He wouldn_ _’t live like this._ Decisively, he pressed the edge deep into his wrist. Blood spurted for a single heartbeat before the wound closed itself up and the shower rinsed away the redness. Dismayed, Sherlock cut his other wrist, deeper this time, visibly slicing a slit into his vein. It healed even before he took the blade away.

Sherlock scrubbed himself mercilessly from head to toe, tears running down his face the entire time. _He was a ruin. The person who was once Sherlock Holmes was being taken over by something he had no control over. He couldn_ _’t even decently kill himself, his body wouldn_ _’t allow him to suffer harm nor would it let him make a simple phone call to let the police know to come get him_. Sherlock had no idea what to do and shied away from attempting to reveal himself to anyone else. John’s reaction had been more than enough of a lesson.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen the entire night. The lights were off, but he was watching the streets for John, hoping desperately that his soldier would come back. There was no sign of him. Sherlock checked his mobile, but it was completely dead. _There was no point plugging it in. He wasn_ _’t going to accept cases, and John wasn_ _’t talking to him. He_ _’d destroyed his laptop two weeks ago and had been using John_ _’s, but John was gone now._ Sherlock sat eventually and thought about his options. He had to figure out how to stop himself before he preyed on someone else. There was no gun in the flat, not since John moved away and Mycroft would most certainly notice if Sherlock tried to arrange to get one some other way. He put his mind to other methods. Some he dismissed as unfeasible, but others had a certain kind of merit. When the sky began to lighten with dawn, he had made his choice.

Sherlock went to see Mrs Hudson. It still wasn’t too late to lift her roasting pan down and she was very grateful. She was even more grateful when he offered to sponsor her next trip to see her family with her sister. Mrs Hudson’s niece had recently given birth to yet another healthy baby, and the sisters wanted to go give the weary mom a hand. “You’re certain that a month isn’t too much, my dear? I know John is g…”

Sherlock couldn’t talk about John’s absence, so he cut her off. “The cost of the tickets doesn’t change, Mrs Hudson, you’re staying with family so you’re good for room and board, and I’ve transferred an additional living amount into your account on top of the rent. I insist. It’s the very least I can do after you stored all my things for so long. I’m likely to be working on cases so you know I won’t notice if you’re not about. It will be fine.”

“I’m very excited, Sherlock, I can’t wait to call my sister and tell her the good news. Why, I could be on the train this very afternoon, after I drop the food off at the church!” She shooed him out of her flat, so she could get ready, forcing Sherlock to promise to take up all the leftovers in her fridge to live on. Since Sherlock had had someone just the night before, he was able to share tea and biscuits with his landlady before she excused herself to pack.

Late that afternoon, Sherlock brought her to the station himself. Mrs Hudson did have a hip, after all, so he managed her luggage for her, helping her onboard to get her settled, and accepting her kiss on the cheek. After she was on her way, Sherlock made some stops at a variety of stores. He came back to 221 B Baker Street with a heavy length of chain, several long screw-bolts, a thick leather lined steel collar, and other things he felt he’d need.

Sherlock locked the building up and took himself to his bedroom. Using the stud-finder he’d purchased, Sherlock located the heavy beams beneath the plaster and used his new power tools to bolt a thick metal plate to the wall. Onto it, he welded shut the end link of the chain, and to the chain, he welded the steel collar. Leaving everything to cool, Sherlock managed to empty their fridge and arduously dragged it into his room. He refilled it with water, juice, and pre-cooked meals from Mrs Hudson. He checked the chain’s length to make sure it was ample for his purpose.

Sherlock changed into pyjamas. _There was no point being more uncomfortable than he was going to be already._ When all was prepared, Sherlock took up the heavy collar and locked it around his own neck. The key was on the mantle out front. His chain was long enough to reach his _en-suite_ bathroom but not enough for him to leave his room further than three steps from his door. Sherlock lay on his bed and stared despondently at the wall. He was waiting to die. _There was no way he was going to let himself be forced into raping people so that he could exist._

It would take a long time this way, but Sherlock was resolute. _He deserved to die slowly, to be hollowed out and tortured._ _He_ _’d stolen people_ _’s memories as well as whatever it was the mist was comprised of. They couldn_ _’t take umbrage nor seek the justice they deserved so he would be the judge of himself and punish himself accordingly. He was a thief as well as a molester._ Nothing had saved Edward Larch at the end, so Sherlock was confident that the lack of victims would do him in rather than hunger or even thirst. _It didn_ _’t matter anyway. Death would happen, there was no one to stop it, and if he died in torment, then that was what he deserved to pay for his crimes_.


	5. Depression

The first day was one filled with equal amount of stress and boredom. The collar was heavy and uncomfortable, it gave him a headache from the strain on his neck. On the other hand, it’s sturdiness was a relief. _There was no way possible for him to escape his confinement. People were safe_. It would be awful for Mrs Hudson when she got back, and he deeply regretted the necessity. _It was for the best, in the end._ Sherlock gagged at the thought of kissing another stranger; of hearing their gasps and moans, tasting their saliva, their snacks and meals, the halitosis some would surely have one day, or worse. The memory of where his hand had been made him want to slice it off if he were even able to sustain an injury like that. _Unlikely. It made no difference, he was locked away now_. Everyone was a potential victim, this was the best choice he could make. Sherlock had zero ideas about how he chose his victims, he just took them.

Sherlock regretted not bringing his lab equipment to the bedroom. He could have worked on the problem at least, taken notes. Instead, he languished on his bed, or in the bath. There was nothing to do but lay about, or wash. He was dying by inches and it was tedious but that was only right. _He wasn_ _’t supposed to enjoy himself. This was punishment. This was justice for those who could not seek it for themselves_. The hours trickled by with agonising slowness, but he made no complaint, not when he was sacrificing himself for the greater good. He tried to feel noble about it, but he was just too sad, to upset, too miserable to feel any kind of positive attitude.

He tried not to, but Sherlock thought of John. He desperately missed his friend, but he wished John well in his new _soon-to-be-Sherlock-less_ life. _It was for the best, especially if it meant that John no longer considered Sherlock to be his friend and that they would never share another meal, another case, another laugh, another anything together, it was for John_ _’s own good_. Sherlock didn’t bother to cry about it though his heart ached. The shock and trauma of the first few days of his disease had made him spill more tears than he’d ever done since he was a babe in arms. More than enough, excess was pointless.

The second day was distressing, to say the least. Sherlock was tired, but it was difficult to relax with the rattle of the chain and the press of the collar against his throat. He dozed lightly and regretted it, dipping into a dream world where naked bodies writhed against him and his hands were full of cocks and cunts, his mouth full of tongues and spit and more. Jerking away, Sherlock barely made it to the loo before he was violently throwing up. He examined himself in the mirror. Despite being ill, Sherlock still looked healthy and beautiful. It made him want to vomit all over again. _Monster_.

Sherlock lay down again, his thoughts chaotic. He closed his eyes and walked into his favourite part of his mind palace, John’s rooms. _The furnishings were inexpensive but comfortable, it smelled like tea, and it was warm._ Sherlock strolled around, examining all his memories one at a time. _John_ _’s jumpers. John_ _’s combat boots. John_ _’s dog-tags. John_ _’s pocket protector for his lab coat. All things John_. It was relaxing as well as soothing. Sherlock had spent months here while he’d been pretending to be dead. John’s rooms had kept him sane during torture and privation, they would comfort him while his last minutes ticked away. A small smile graced his soft lips as his eyes remained closed. It wasn't sleeping but it was good enough.

The third day was when human food became impossible to consume. Hunger gripped him hard but despite the fresh fruit, the soft crumbling confections, the adorably cut veg that Mrs Hudson had gifted him with, Sherlock was unable to feed himself. Later in the day, taking in liquid also became impossible. _He was so hungry._ He took a bath instead, soaking in the tub for ages, adding more hot water whenever he needed it until he was completely waterlogged. He tried to hold his own head under the water but before he could drown, his entire upper body lifted itself upward to safety. _Disappointing_. After he got out, Sherlock shaved out of sheer boredom. There was nothing else to do. He couldn’t even attempt to kill himself via a blade, the razor in his hand gliding perfectly over his chin and throat as he scraped way his scruff even when he tried to change the angle and the amount of pressure he was using. He knew he was incapable of doing himself harm now, his affliction wouldn’t allow it. Now that he’d done it, Sherlock was surprised that he’d been able to entrap himself in his rooms to begin with. _It didn_ _’t matter now, it was done_.

The man who had bitten him hadn’t died quickly nor had Sherlock’s symptoms appeared instantaneously. _There obviously had been an incubation period where the disease had found time to take root and thrive inside him_. Sherlock now worried that he would be dead before Mrs Hudson came home. _It might take three entire weeks and he_ _’d only arranged for her to be gone for two. Well, there wasn_ _’t anything for it. He would die from the lack of prey, or from starvation, or he would survive to be rescued by some well-meaning soul who didn_ _’t know any better_. Sherlock fretted until he recalled that she was going to be gone for a month. His fears were affecting his recollection. That was troublesome but temporary. It wasn’t up to Sherlock any longer. Mycroft would know he was still inside the flat, but his brother wouldn’t bother to check closer than that, he’d been lifting his surveillance slowly for some time now, giving Sherlock the freedom he’d felt his little brother deserved. _Poor timing, that_.

Sherlock fell into an uneasy doze yet again. As soon as he did, he became trapped in a dream where an endless line of people stretched out before him, legs spread wide, mouths open, the stench of arousal thick in his nose. Sherlock was repelled but he couldn’t wake up on his own. He tossed and muttered, struggling to free himself from the mental cage he was in, but it was no use.

A beautiful scent overpowered the ugliness. The stink in Sherlock’s dreams faded away and he felt comforted. His transport relaxed, the pain in his head easing as the weight of the world seemed to disappear. Sherlock relaxed for the first time in ages and slipped into proper sleep, his body and soul at ease for once. He floated in the soothing quiet for hours, undisturbed by anything, simply wallowing in the wonderous feel of being safe at home.

Gradually, Sherlock became aware of more. He was warm, laying on his bed, and there was something very different about himself. Sherlock’s eyes flew open the same moment that his hands flew to his throat. _His collar was off. It was off, and he was no longer restrained! No! Oh no!_

Hunger punched through him. Without pause, Sherlock rose from his bed and stalked toward the door unimpeded. Pushing through it, Sherlock nearly ran over John. The doctor was obviously startled, and he smelled of milky tea, “Sherlock, thank god, you’re awake.” John gripped Sherlock’s hands in his, “Who did this to you? I was about to call your brother. I’m going to call the police. Did you see who it was? I’ll fucking kill them! How dare they? What did they want? Did they touch you?”

“John.” Sherlock’s throat was rough with disuse. He hadn’t spoken in days. _He wanted to surge forward, to press his mouth to John_ _’s, to drink deeply, to glut himself on the gorgeousness that was John_. “Stop.” Sherlock said it as much to himself as he did to John, “Don’t call anyone. I did this. I…locked myself in. I was trying to stop myself from hunting. I was going to…”

John’s eyes hardened the second Sherlock’s trailed off. “You were going _to what_ , Sherlock?” John’s voice was filled with danger. He looked forbidding and coldly furious, “Tell me you weren’t going to kill yourself.”

“I was.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted unhappily because he was hurting John further.

“You _promised_ , Sherlock! You promised not to die on me again! You said that you’d never put me through that again!” John shouted for only a moment before he clapped his hands comically over his own mouth, “Oh fuck, it was because I left, wasn’t it? I made you think there was no one to care what happened, didn’t I? I did. _I left. I said we were done!_ I’m sorry, Sherlock. You begged for help but I was angry and selfish, and I took myself away just to hurt you. I’m a spiteful hateful prick, and because of me you went out, didn’t you, you couldn’t stop yourself…you did this…you had no one to turn to for help, and I’m so sorry.”

John hugged Sherlock tight and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop himself from embracing John in return. His soldier smelled so delicious. _He was so hungry. He needed to feed, and the perfect meal was right in front of him. John._ Sherlock tilted John’s head up and bent down. Just as his lips were about to press against the doctor’s, Sherlock came back to himself with a jolt of pure fear, “No!” Sherlock shouted and shoved John away, “No! I can’t. Not you, _not anyone_. I can’t do this, John. I don’t want to be like this! Why didn’t you just let me die like I deserved?”

John was pale and shaken looking but he didn’t stay away for more than a moment. “Sherlock. Listen to me. I think I know what happened even if I don’t exactly know how.” John swallowed hard and Sherlock’s eyes tracked the motion of John’s throat before staring at John’s lips greedily. John’s hands reached out and took his, warming Sherlock’s fingers before he spoke again. “I did a bit of reading. I spoke to one of our old clients, the one with the witch problem, remember him? No? Well, it was only a three, so I guess…never mind that. I spoke to him about what had happened, I didn’t use names, I just described your symptoms. He sent me to talk to a few other people.” John hesitated before continuing, stepping close enough to almost embrace the detective, “Sherlock, I think you were infected by an _incubus_ , you know, one of those demonic sex predators. The lady demons are called _succubus_. The client didn’t really think that they could spread by bite, he said that was normally a werewolf or vampire legend, but there’s also no real proof that it _can_ _’t_ be done that way.”

Sherlock blinked. _He_ _’d read about incubi, but it was a fact he_ _’d kept in a disregarded room in his mind palace. He had no time for paranormal foolishness but now, now he was apparently becoming a supernatural creature._ “It’s not just women, John. I’ve forced men, you saw me do it.” Sherlock was filled with revulsion and self-loathing all over again. “I’d never laid a finger on anyone in a sexual way before this, John. I was a virgin but now look at me. I’m a rapist, a disgusting predator, I’m a monster.”

John looked devastated, “Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock.” John embraced Sherlock once again, holding him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry this is happening to you.” Sherlock clung to John and nearly wept all over again. John rubbed small circles on Sherlock’s lower back, “Look, I’m home again. I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry I didn’t answer you back right away. I went and got drunk and I ignored you for days. I was almost too late. You were so cold, Sherlock, you were chained up and you looked dead, and I knew it was my fault. I should never have left. I should have listened to you. I should have believed you.”

Sherlock sniffled but he had to say it, “I’m going out, John. I need to feed or rather, I _will_ feed. I can’t stop myself. I have no control over the process. My transport just goes and does whatever it needs until it’s over, that’s why I chained myself to the wall. I’ve tried to prevent it, nothing works. I don’t know how it chooses people nor why it is insisting on doing more each time. I don’t want to be that person. John! I don’t know what to do. I feel the need to leave right now, I will leave, John, do you understand?”

John was holding Sherlock so tight that breathing was becoming difficult. Sherlock exhaled raggedly and found himself calming and relaxing. _John smelled so good._ He nuzzled against John’s neck and felt the words as much as he heard them. John was speaking with a gravelly voice, deep, sincere. “Have me, Sherlock. Take me instead of some stranger.”

Sherlock was horrified and ecstatic at the same time. “ _Use_ you? _Feed on you?_ No, John! Not you! You are…no, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can. I want you to.” John looked resolute, “Sherlock, I can’t let you go about hunting people. What if one of them hurts you? What if someone kills you? What about STIs? Does your transport care if you get ill? I do! Deeply!” John took a deep breath and looked up at Sherlock, his face serious, “No one in the world means more to me than you do, Sherlock Holmes. Have me. Make a meal of me. Do anything you need to but do it to _me_. I would rather that then share you with anyone else.”

“John, what do you mean?” A terrible hope was blooming inside Sherlock. It was as awful as his sudden realization that Edward Larch had been able to feed on him because of _his_ unrequited desire for John! His feelings and needs had been buried deep, but not deep enough to keep the incubus from attacking him immediately, or from possibly unintentionally passing along his disease. Sherlock hadn’t bitten anyone, and kisses didn’t seem to be enough to infect others. It made a perverse kind of sense because if kissing had been enough, London would be filled with supernatural sex-predators right now.

John looked at him for a moment longer, “I love you, Sherlock. I’m _in_ love with you. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I’ve been a coward. When I came across you with that man in the alley, all I could think of was that you’d rather be with absolutely anyone but me and it hurt so much. I want it to be me, do you understand. If I can give you that, we’ll both be happy. You won’t have to be with someone you don’t know, and I will know that I am taking care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. Do you see, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was utterly dumbfounded. _John was astonishing!_ “I don’t know, John. This doesn’t feel like it’s a good idea.”

John frowned for a moment. He shrugged and earnestly asked, “Is there a better way to handle this right now?”

Sherlock hung his head, dejected. He knew very well that his choices were John or death, and John wasn’t about to let him die. “John, I really don’t want to just use you. You are my best, my only friend. I care for you and respect you. I can’t imagine how you must feel about me now, you say you love me but…”

“Stop. I do love you. I think you love me back, but now you’re even more reluctant to say so because of what happened to you.” John’s face was filled with earnestness and all Sherlock could do was nod dumbly, incapable of speaking when his heart was in his throat. _He did love John. He loved John like he loved no one else. It was overwhelming to consider the shift in his situation and he was wasn_ _’t at his cognitive best just then. He was exhausted, hungry, and overcome with too many conflicting emotions_. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Take what you need from me. Please?”

Sherlock’s body didn’t wait for another invitation. He had John up against the wall, their mouths pressed together. Without hesitation, Sherlock’s hand made its way beneath John’s belt and into his pants. Both groaned when he touched John’s cock. _John smelled masculine and clean, inviting, and delicious._ “Oh, John.” Sherlock felt his body almost quiver with need. _John tasted better than he smelled. His body was reacting to Sherlock, hardening, thickening, welcoming him._ Sherlock cupped the back of John’s head with his other hand and allowed the smaller man to rut against him as he desperately drank down the mist that appeared. _So delicious, so much better, and richer than anyone before_. He pushed his leg between John’s and groaned again as John began riding his thigh slowly.

John was thick in his pants and Sherlock found the feel of John’s cock in his hand to be lovely and not at all repulsive. John’s flesh smelled intoxicating and not disgusting. Dropping his free hand, Sherlock somehow managed to undo John’s belt, button, and flies, pushing his trousers down as far as he could. John helped, not stopping until he was able to kick them away, standing in front of Sherlock wearing only his jumper and socks. “Sherlock.” John gasped, “Pants. Off. Let me feel you.”

Sherlock was a bit befuddled. _None of his previous meals had responded or spoken or demanded anything. They had just passively allowed him to take what he needed but John wasn_ _’t in a daze like they had been. His eyes were cloudy with lust and desire but that was it._ Sherlock didn’t break off his kiss, but he did stop stroking John long enough to do as he was bid. Sherlock went so far as to remove everything he was wearing and to take off the last of John’s clothes as well. The second he was free of them, Sherlock pressed up against the soldier and nearly gasped as the heat of their bodies warmed him right though.

The mist that poured from John was thick and opaque right away. It filled Sherlock from head to toe and for the first time, it ended before John had reached his peak. Sherlock was full, his hunger already sated but Sherlock didn’t want to stop touching John, so he didn’t. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s hard cock and stroked firmly, steadily urging the soldier closer to completion. To his utter shock and surprise, John did the same, working Sherlock’s cock with his shorter but devastatingly clever fingers until Sherlock was rutting back. _The feelings he evoked were astonishing. Breathtaking. Mind breaking_. They thrust and ground against each other until John’s hips eventually stuttered to a halt. The soldier grunted once, loudly, his cry guttural as he spilt his seed all over Sherlock’s hand and leg.

Sherlock felt his entire body become taut and tense. The pleasant sensation of John’s touch grew more intense until he was whining softly, the unexpected pleasure of it all unrolling inside him like a heatwave. “You’re so perfect, Sherlock, so clever, so brave, so beautiful. I love you, I love you so much, my amazing Sherlock.”

John’s words were the final bit of stimulation he needed. Sherlock orgasmed right there on the spot, for the first time in his adult life he was coming on purpose. It felt so good that it was nearly painful in it intensity, “John.” Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else to say as he sagged forward. He kissed John’s mouth again, then his cheek, and absently, John’s ear. Energy surged through him and he nearly purred with satisfaction.

Slowly, he stepped back. He was dreading seeing the blankness in John’s eyes but to his continued shock, it wasn’t there. John’s eyes were bright, clear, and filled with so much love that Sherlock went forward all over again to embrace his lover. “That wasn’t bad at all. Kind of fantastic, actually.”

 _Did John remember?_ “You know what we just did?” Sherlock had to know for sure.

John nodded, “Yeah, of course I do. We just fucked in the hallway like teenagers only a minute ago. It was incredible. We can do that any time you want, just so you know.” John was grinning broadly, his face relaxed and happy looking.

 _Astonishing. John_ _’_ _s memory had not been affected. Was it because his participation was voluntary or because of his feelings for him?_ Sherlock didn’t know. “I feel amazing.” Sherlock’s skin was buzzing with satisfaction. It hummed beneath the surface like an electrical discharge and it felt gorgeous.

“You look amazing, like you’re lit up from the inside out.” John was smiling, “Bit chilly in here though. Why don’t you grab your robe and let’s get my stuff back where it belongs?”

John quickly redressed after Sherlock used his top to clean them both off. John went to the bathroom and brought back two hot damp flannels which they used to do a better job. Sherlock did as he was asked and shrugged into his robe to help John cart up his bags and few boxes, “Where did you go?”

“A cheap hotel.” John looked abashed, “I was so mad at you. I was furious because all this time I thought that I’d never get to have you but there you were with some total stranger, and you were about to fuck him. It was so wrong in so many different ways that I had to leave before I made things worse. I didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be, so I rented the first dive I came across and licked my wounds alone.”

“I’m so sorry, John. I never wanted to let you know what I’d become but I knew I couldn’t hide it forever. I am so ashamed. I hated it every single time it happened. I was desperate to prevent it from ever happening again. I was raping people but against my will, I have never wanted to be casual with intimacy. That’s now how I wanted my first time to go, rubbing off some person in an alley!” Sherlock shuddered. _The memory still disgusted him but perhaps, with John_ _’_ _s help, the future wouldn_ _’_ _t be so horrid._ “I don’t know how to make it up to them, John.”

“I don’t know either, Sherlock. We’ll figure it all out. We’ll make it right, together, okay?” John led Sherlock to the living room where he made tea before he unpacked all his boxes. Sherlock gave him a pointed look just as John was about to bring his clothing upstairs so, with a bit of a pleased blush, John hauled his personal possessions into Sherlock’s room. Together, they relocated the fridge back to the kitchen and set the flat to rights. “Okay, let’s talk about everything.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his as they sat on the sofa. Sherlock took a deep breath and told John everything.

 


	6. Acceptance

They had takeaway while John processed everything he’d just learned about his best friend. Sherlock was so relieved that John was willing to support him through this that he was red-eyed and teary throughout the meal, a meal he gratefully consumed now that he could. John’s eyes were soft but filled with such deep affection that Sherlock’s cheeks heated numerous times with a bashful blush. He wasn’t sure how to respond or react, but John didn’t seem to have any expectations. They just ate dinner quietly together. When he was full, both with John’s contribution as well as regular human food, Sherlock sat back and watched John eat up everything that remained. “Are you okay?”

John drank the last of his tea before answering, “I feel amazing, actually.” He paused to weigh his words, “It felt strange, at first. I could feel whatever it was coming out of me but there was no pain, no weakness, no anything. I wanted to help you, and I did. I would have paid whatever cost required if that’s what it took to keep you alive.”

Sherlock was disturbed by this announcement, “John, it could have had an adverse effect on you if this continues long-term. The others retained no memories of their assault. We still don’t know what might happen if I feed upon you regularly…”

“What are our choices, currently?” John asked pointedly. He leaned forward, “Listen to me, Sherlock. I had no idea if we’d ever admit our feelings to ourselves never mind each other, or how long it might take after that to decide what we were to one another. What if I hadn’t decided to come back this week or the next? You would have died horribly. I would have hated myself for the rest of my life for walking out on you that day. That was wrong of me. You begged for my help and I put you off because my feelings were hurt, and I ended up making everything worse than it already was.” John looked ashamed of himself, “I know you, Sherlock. I know you better than anyone, even your family, I suspect. You don’t ask for help. You don’t beg. You don’t…" John breathed deeply for a long moment before he continued, “I failed you so many times. Maybe if I’d been a better friend, a smarter person, you wouldn’t have needed to go away for so long.”

“John, you can’t believe that!” Sherlock knew that John had been angry with him for faking his death, but he had not realized that John had been angry with himself. _This was a shocking revelation_. _It was one thing to bear the burden of knowing that he was causing John emotional harm, but it had never occurred to him that John would wound himself on top of it all_. “You were the best possible friend I could have asked for, you are exactly the kind of person I need you to be. Please, John.” Sherlock reached out and squeezed John’s fingers softly, “Let me tell you everything.”

The conversation was longer than the one they'd just had. Sherlock had already told John bits of it, the criminals he had foiled, some of the injuries that he’d sustained, the lives he’d saved. Sherlock had not told John anything about why he had been willing to do so, and the answer had nothing to do with unravelling the global network that Moriarty had left in his wake. Now Sherlock confessed how he’d always felt close to John but didn’t understand why - not until he was far away.

It was their separation that had forced Sherlock to reveal to himself what John was to him, and it had taken this dreadful transformation for Sherlock to accept that the one person he could not live without was _John Hamish Watson_. He told John how he felt for every moment between the assault that had changed him, admitted how traumatic it was to be compelled to touch people, to have them, to feel and smell and remember all these intimate things about them, knowledge Sherlock most certainly did not want to gather for any reason, and even less in _that_ manner.

“Is that how I make you feel?” John looked upset as well as anxious as he awaited Sherlock’s answer.

Sherlock pondered this for a few moments to be certain he answered as truthfully as he could, “People repel me, well, most people. There are a few that I do not object to when they are inside my personal boundaries. I have always felt especially comfortable with your touch, John. I trust you. I respect your skills. I like to believe that I understand your basic character, and I find it comforting. You know how to be tender as well as strong, and I suspect that I have developed rather an addiction to this particular quality of yours.” He paused for another moment before continuing, “Right now, I am as unsettled and mentally afloat as I ever was during the worst of my addiction to drugs, I need you to understand that I only feel better when you are near me. When we are together in that way, I find myself excited by you, aroused by you. I wanted to be with you, to touch you, and to have you touch me. I enjoyed it. I don’t feel negative about it, in fact, you should know that I feel such _peace_ when you are by my side.”

John’s eyes softened, “I thought as much. I tried to help, a bit, at any rate.” Sherlock nodded, taking a moment to relive all the times he’d woken from a brief but restful sleep to see John nearby. “I know you prefer your independence.”

“A preference I can no longer indulge, John. If you agree to do this for me, I will rely solely on you for the very particular sustenance my transport demands. I will not go to another, not if I can help myself. Let me be clear - _I would rather die a slow death than be forced to take that which I need without consent._ I cannot bear the idea of physically pleasuring someone who isn’t you.” Sherlock felt his gorge rise at the very thought of it.

He felt a calloused hand cupping his cheek, soothing him. “I promise to be here for you, whatever you need Sherlock, I will give it to you. The moment you have even a hint of hunger, tell me. We’ll take care of it before you are compelled to go hunting.” John was resolute, and Sherlock felt the stress inside him begin to cautiously ease. John embraced him, “People will talk, but I will be glad of it. I’m yours, Sherlock, every bit of me. It’s about time, no matter how it came about.”

“So, that’s it, then? We’re…partners?” Sherlock felt unaccountably abashed as he searched for appropriate nomenclature. He wrapped his arms around John to hug the man tightly to him for a few brief seconds.

He pulled back to look down and saw that John’s grin was instantaneous as well as cheeky, “ _Boyfriends_.”

Sherlock groaned and hid his face in his hands, “We’re not schoolboys, John!”

“You _look_ like a schoolboy. People probably think I’m a deviant for being with such a young thing.”

“John, you are only three years older than I am.” Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to being joshed with like this, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“So young. So so innocent.” John shook his head and almost cooed up at Sherlock.

“You are being ridiculous.” His cheeks were getting hot. _Was John making him blush?_

“Now now, little one, don’t be cranky. Does my little sweetie need a snacky-snack for his tum tum?” John’s voice was syrupy.

“Fuck _off_ , Watson.” John’s laugh was full of happiness and light as he teased Sherlock, ignoring the detective's completely false mad face. Sherlock couldn’t help himself and grinned back at his (oh very well) _boyfriend_. “I do love you, John. I never expected to but there we are.”

John’s expression was a sight that Sherlock wanted to capture and keep forever, so he did. With infinite care, he tucked the memory safely away in one of John’s rooms in his mind palace. Sherlock didn’t feel like he deserved to be looked upon with such love and devotion, such understanding and resolve, but he was. It was how John felt about him and how Sherlock knew he felt about John. “Excellent.

Sherlock began his new life properly the very next morning. He and John had slept together and discovered that Sherlock did not need to be famished to be sexually active, in fact, oral sex was something the detective found a great deal of enjoyment in, both giving and receiving. John was a bit shamefaced as he confessed that he had some experience from his years in the military but that they had all been mere expressions of stress relief and the thrill of surviving yet another day, he’d never had romantic feelings for any man except Sherlock. It soothed the detective who only wanted John.

Sherlock began to make what reparations he could. They went back to doing the Work, especially since Lestrade had been leaving him more and more agitated messages as he requested assistance. Sherlock took special care to pay attention during cases that featured sexual abuse, cases that were notoriously difficult to prove. _Challenge accepted._ Helping victims of these crimes put their abusers behind bars gave him a sense of repentance, but Sherlock knew that he would always feel guilty for what he had done. He used that feeling to focus on his Work, unwilling to allow anyone he could help from suffering further when he could solve their problems.

He made sure to help his own victims too. Ana had given him the address for his first victim, and with John’s help, they eventually managed to find addresses for all of them though it involved Mycroft’s assistance. Without explaining _why_ their relationship had deepened, John managed to get Mycroft to find the rest of Sherlock’s victims without giving up Sherlock’s secret. The first man, the one who exercised, was the very first person that Sherlock anonymously helped. After a quick examination of his life, Sherlock and John determined that the man was on two different medical prescriptions that conflicted with one another and had caused his weight gain. It took some complex manoeuvring, but they managed to alert his doctor of the fact. When more complimentary medications were scripted, the man’s weight problem began to fix itself as his health improved. It wouldn’t make up for what had been done to him, but it was something.

Ana found herself offered a room in a women’s shelter and from there, rehab. Sherlock utilised some of his Trust fund to pay for everything, funnelling money to the facility through a specifically aimed but anonymous donation. It would take her some time but when she was through, Ana would find a job as well as a small flatshare waiting for her when she was ready. Sherlock included a therapist since Ana hadn’t ended up on the streets purely because of drugs, she’d begun taking them to deal with issues in her past, issues the therapist would now help her deal with in a healthier manner.

One at a time, Sherlock and John found secret ways to improve the lives of those that Sherlock preyed on. It soothed their collective conscience, and even though Sherlock felt it wasn’t enough, it was what he could do that wasn’t stopped by whatever now partially controlled his transport. He couldn’t hurt himself at all, and even when they worked on cases, Sherlock did and said nothing at all that might cause the detectives around him to suspect him of his crimes. _At least there was no need to hunt for strange prey. He had John now, and wouldn_ _’t need another person for as long as they were together, a timespan that John had decided would be their entire lives_.

Sherlock was grateful for John’s unstinting love and support. In return, Sherlock made a study of love-making, ensuring that John experienced only the finest moments of physical bliss during mealtimes and that his emotional health was as robust as their sex-life. Sherlock devoted his intellect entirely to the maintenance of John Watson’s happiness. So far, it had been all hands – kisses had been restricted to their upper body except for the one random time John kissed Sherlock’s knee when they’d been cuddling on the sofa.

John knew that Sherlock was uncomfortable with sexuality and never made demands for more than what Sherlock was all right with doing but Sherlock knew that it was a very unfair situation. _He needed to show John that he was willing to be a very generous partner in bed. It wasn_ _’t payment for what John offered, no, not at all. There was nothing that could possibly recoup the priceless gift of life that John freely gave Sherlock every few days, no, this was how Sherlock needed to show John, so the doctor could properly understand that Sherlock was truly his, and his alone. Sherlock needed to satisfy John_ _’s every need just as much as he needed to feed. His peace of mind demanded it_.

He started slow. So far, Sherlock had needed to have meal-related intercourse with John every six days, and on good weeks, seven days. John always allowed Sherlock absolute freedom during these times, unlike when they made love just for the pleasure of it. John always restrained himself, but Sherlock didn’t want his lover to feel that he needed to. It wasn’t satisfying knowing that John denied himself. Sherlock wanted John to be indulged in whatever manner made him feel good, and just because Sherlock hadn’t wanted a lover before John, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t use his capacious mind to examine and then perfect every kind of technique or kink that might make John a tiny bit happier. He was all in when it came to John Watson.

“John, I want to do a bit of exploring.” Sherlock was draped over his naked lover. They had been kissing softly, just tenderly exchanging affections as they made themselves comfortable, “Is there anywhere you want me to avoid?”

Sherlock was mostly thinking of John’s shoulder. The soldier was sensitive about his scar, a wound that had traumatised more than just his body. It was an everlasting reminder of everything John was no longer permitted to do, and he rarely let anyone see it, and almost no one was ever allowed to touch it. Sherlock had already kissed it several times and had even stroked his fingertips over it. He would lavish attention on it every single day if John would let him because it was the reason they were able to be together and Sherlock wasn’t unappreciative of its significance. John thought seriously for a few minutes before offering a sincere and firm, “No.”

“Okay, then.” Sherlock covered familiar territory first. He kissed John’s neck, his collarbones, and his chest. Daringly, he flicked his tongue over John’s nipples one at a time, sucking on them lightly, going back and forth slowly before he worked up the courage to move lower. John smelled faintly of musk, a bit of salt, and it was rather lovely. Sherlock closed his eyes as he breathed in John’s scent deeply. Keeping them closed, Sherlock allowed himself to experience the feel of John’s most intimate parts with his lips. He mouthed his way gently over John’s hips, let John’s pubic hair tickle his skin as he brushed over it, and then Sherlock mapped out the shape of John’s very erect penis with them. It made sense to part those same lips to allow the head of John’s cock slip between them, and he heard John moan in tandem with him as John’s flavour smeared across his tongue. He was delicious.

Sherlock had not realised that John could be so appetising. With growing eagerness, Sherlock experimented with different ways of taking John into him, using his tongue to keep John wet, to press and lick until John’s hips bucked hard. Sherlock felt his throat relax and open to admit John’s cock without protest, swallowing the thick shaft down deep enough that Sherlock’s nose was buried in John’s pubic hair once again. He swallowed, and John swore. It felt gorgeous to have that firm warm wedge of cock so deep in his mouth. Sherlock pulled off before pushing himself back down, bobbing his head to enjoy the feel of John piercing his throat repeatedly.

Sherlock realised that he was hard as stone and he didn’t object to his arousal. It was John’s effect on him, proof that the soldier was the only person in the world who had a physical impact on the detective. Sherlock knew that it made John proud, so he made sure to rut against John’s leg, animalistic as he pumped his hips to show John just how far gone he was. _Sherlock was beyond dignity, all he wanted was for John to come inside of him._ Sherlock fumbled around until he found John’s hands. He pulled them forward until he could show John that he wanted his head held tight. Sherlock stopped moving, remaining impaled on John’s cock until the doctor got the idea. With a moan, John moved Sherlock’s head, fucking Sherlock’s face cautiously at first, and then with abandon when Sherlock resumed eagerly rutting against John’s leg.

It felt amazing to be used like this by John. He’d had no idea that he could be aroused by this sort of thing, but he definitely was, it felt right and natural. Sherlock was drooling a bit as John kept his jaw wide open while his thick cock hammered inward. Sherlock’s entire body was trembling as his excitement grew. Suddenly, John pulled out and manhandled Sherlock upward until he was stretched out on his back. John straddled his face, reinserted his cock and began to fuck Sherlock’s face harder than ever. It was hard to tell who was moaning more. Sherlock felt his cock bobbing around in the air as the bed shook. He reached up and gripped John’s lovely little arse with both hands, his pinkie fingers digging into his crease where Sherlock deliberately allowed them to press against John’s hole. John came with a low deep grunt, his seed spurting down Sherlock’s throat.

John flopped to the side, face down and panting. When he’d caught his breath, he looked Sherlock in the eye and clearly said, “Fuck me.”

Sherlock almost spent himself right there. When he had regained a modicum of control, he asked, “Are you sure?”

John grinned, lazy, and satisfied looking, “That felt so amazing, love, but what I’ve been dreaming about is having your long and rather handsome cock entirely buried in my arse, if that’s something you’re interested in trying?”

Sherlock had somehow assumed he’d be the bottom, but John was literally waving his arse in the air. Sherlock quickly mentally gathered all the facts he’d researched about anal sex and went into high gear. _He_ _’d done his research. He was prepared to do this for John_. First step; mouth on arse. It was incredible. John’s entrance was firm and tight. Coaxing it to relax took patience. Sherlock was in no rush, content to tongue and lap at John’s arse for as long as it took. It was pleasurable for them both, and Sherlock was becoming impatient to replace his tongue with his cock, so he got on with the next stage.

Wetting his finger with saliva, Sherlock licked more onto John before rubbing small circles around the orifice. He waited until John’s opening was soft and beginning to open, pressing his fingertip in through with delicacy until he was beyond John’s sphincter. John’s body eagerly accepted it and seemed hungry for more, so Sherlock gave it. Keeping his digits drenched in saliva, Sherlock fucked John with one finger for a long time, twisting and pumping it firmly before he made sure his second finger was slick enough to join along. John stiffened but said nothing as Sherlock pressed in. When John was loose enough for more, Sherlock added another, and then, to be safe, he added a fourth. John was groaning softly, rearing back and meeting Sherlock’s hand with thrusts of his own.

Sherlock’s cock was thick and hard, and three fingers would most likely have done the trick. Due to his over-cautious approach, Sherlock found that his slickened penis sank easily into John’s eager body. John was impatient, now hard again and twisting his hips to make small circles. He used his motions to swirl downward onto Sherlock’s stiffness, thrusting back and rearing forward in a lust induced dance that didn’t end until their bodies were pressed tightly together.

Sherlock hadn’t even considered how good it might feel to be inside someone with his phallus. He’d only instinctively attempted it the one time and that hungry act was impossible to compare to the clinging heat that was John’s arse, so hungry for more of Sherlock’s flesh. John arched his back and managed to reach his right hand above his head and behind it, just enough to grip Sherlock’s neck and pull him forward until Sherlock was laying across John’s strong back.

Sherlock braced himself on his fists and took John’s unspoken request to twist and press his hips firmly and slowly. Time seemed to stop moving as they rocked together for eternity. He bit his way across John’s shoulders and felt his lover shudder beneath him. _Ecstasy. Even without orgasm, John made him feel ecstasy!_ Sherlock used one hand to stroke John’s cock, loving the gasps and moans he made his lover express. It was glorious to be thrusting into John, Sherlock felt like he was on a higher plane of existence now that he had joined with John. “Not…going…to…oh fuck, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

John’s exultant shout was followed by a long drawn out groan that ended in a rumbling growl. His arse squeezed and milked Sherlock’s cock until he couldn’t hold back. Sherlock discovered that he was grunting inelegantly, huffing and puffing as he drove himself hard and fast, riding John’s passage with slick fast strokes until he peaked. Each throb made him cry out because it was painfully good, the sensation so intense that Sherlock felt his eyelids slamming tightly shut so that he didn’t need to deal with the unnecessary stimulus. His heart pounded so fast and hard that all he could hear was a tidal roar in his ears until at last, he came back to himself.

John was breathing easily beneath him, his body lax and motionless. Sherlock realised that his lover had not retained consciousness and it made him feel oddly proud. Slowly, Sherlock extracted himself and spent a few moments shamefacedly watching John’s red and swollen entrance as thick tears of come dripped out. It was filthy and gorgeous. With care, Sherlock slipped out of bed and went to the loo. Washing himself down quickly, he came back to the bedroom and carefully wiped John down until he was clean as well.

Sherlock slipped into bed. Gently, he tugged and prodded John until the small man was curled up in his arms with Sherlock spooned up behind him. With a smile, Sherlock closed his eyes and slipped off to sleep. That night, Sherlock’s dreams were full of sex once more, but he wasn’t horrified. He dreamt of John and it was beautiful. He could taste his soldier, knew that the feel beneath his hands was his best friend and that the taste in his mouth was one that he could savour and appreciate for the rest of his unnatural life.

Perhaps he’d be lucky and find a cure for his condition or he would spend his life living off John. Either way, he’d never leave his soldier. Sherlock slept and dreamed of a future where he knelt before his friend and formally asked John to be his. He dreamt of a day where John could have him the way Sherlock had had John, and it would be beautiful as well. There were problems to solve, and cases to close, and a whole world of mystery to figure out. With John by his side, Sherlock would be okay, John would keep him right, as John always did. Sherlock would use his talents and his new characteristics to help people and not prey on them, and for him, it was enough.


End file.
